


Fucked

by kaosbabe16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaosbabe16/pseuds/kaosbabe16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angsty Sherlock and Irene, lemon!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucked

He was always a complicated man. Everyone who had come into contact with him had known that. Why else would he be attracted to the blackest widow of them all, Irene Adler? She infuriated him to no end. Oh, she’d try her classic little sex games on him, oh yes. But now? As he was pounding into her wet, warm sex, this is where he knew he had bested her. His hand hurt. His hand and her arse were raw, red, and singing with the sting of submission.

He was surging, taking her from behind, because while he knew she needed the punishment, he couldn't bear to look into those sinful, lying eyes. The whimpers she made, trying and failing to keep silent, were from the duality. Pain and pleasure, two edges of the same sword. He almost laughed, because he was impaling her with that sword this very moment. Wishing to fuck the very defiance out of her. She hated him, and the feeling was more than mutual.

It happened from the first. Neither could deny the attraction, but when he'd unzipped his fly, and demanded she bring him off orally, well, the tryst turned sick, unhealthy, and inevitable. Because even though he had her cunt, he knew he'd only ever have part of her heart.

He clenched his teeth, but then opened his mouth and marked her neck as he came inside her. The orgasm wrung him dry, he panted and pulled out as she started to sob. She cried almost every time, and even though she was a seasoned whore, desperate to keep her own bodily functions locked, she always, always came. She hated herself for it. Yet, she couldn't help it. He was the only paramour who she yielded to. She'd come two or three times, every escapade in a different setting, and yet she knew he wouldn't look at her face. They'd never even kissed, and somehow, with her long rap sheet of lovers he was the one who mattered, the only one. He somehow got her shriveled heart to swelled, and tugged on those strings that used to belong to a fresh-faced virgin. He removed himself and immediately got dressed. This was the way. It happened 112, now 113 times since Christmas. She feared each one would be the last.

She held her breath.  
He didn’t say a word.  
She wouldn’t cover his marks, not with all the make up in the world.  
He tried to keep the scent of her perfume in the creases of his clothing.  
She loved him, with every part of her sullied soul.  
He would never believe her.  
She waited for when “Until next time,” became “Adieu.” There was only one way.  
The End.


End file.
